The Black Elixir
by Shade105
Summary: Young Spyro wonders into Cynder's room as she sleeps, recovering from the terrible agony of having been corrupted. He soon finds a small vial that contains an ominous, black elixir. Trouble and secrets about Cynder's past ensue.
1. The Black Elixir

**So I got the inspiration to write this story yesterday at about eleven at night, and I worked on it from that moment up until 3:23. The story just came to me, and the desire the write pushed me forward.**

**And to be quite frank, I think I did a pretty decent job (Heh, oh humble me). But let's see what other's think about it.**

**It might be a oneshot, or maybe I could possibly be expanded. Who knows! It is up to fate to decide!**

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Spyro would never be too fond of the gelatinous paste that was fed to him every three sunrises for the purpose of his vitality. Ignitus had once stated –in a rather stern tone, tired of the purple dragon's complaints- that it was good for him, and that it was odd to hear the dragon protest, considering the fact that the fair natured dragon was so rarely retaliative. The purple dragon would remember his mentor's exact words whenever he was forced to swallow the repulsive, sandy-textured, green muck that was placed before him before the breaking of fast every three days:

"My young dragon," Ignitus would start. "You are weak and your powers fail you. This revitalizing potion will reattach you to the forces within your being. In no time, you will be back to your former self; but you must be patient!"

And indeed it sounded delightful to the dragon to drink anything revered enough to be called a potion, but now the use of the word potion sounded like trickery to him. In the tales Spyro would love to read –found in the vast shelves of the endless libraries of the broken-down temple, he would see the great and brave dragons of yore drinking potions and elixirs that would quench all their needs and bring liquid vitality to his soul. Both Sparx and the purple savior tried the first dose of the potion given to revitalize –all wide-eyed and enthusiastic, but were quickly and crudely disappointed. What was supposed to taste like pure bliss was to them more like 'the underside of the most terrible and foul-smelling mushroom', as Sparx remarked. The young dragon was betrayed and abandoned by his own brother after this first sample of the 'hardly-what-you-can-call-a-potion' potion, and had no choice but to swallow it himself.

But it wasn't as bad as the elixirs given to Cynder day and night by the guardians to deal with the torment of her recent escape from corruption; and Spyro knew this clearly. He hated to see her in those days when she would become weak and feverish, for they were only a warning of the terrors and pain that was to come to her. In less than a few hours of the first signs of illness, Cynder would collapse, being doused with ghastly dreams and atrocious pain. Spyro would always have to rush to the guardians for help terrified, and fearful for the dragoness' wellbeing. Ignitus would be the first one to come, and with him he would bring his healing elixirs.

The black-looking liquid was the worst. Ignitus would open the weakened dragoness' muzzle and would slowly drop the elixir into her mouth. As the dark, ominous potion would slip beyond Cynder throat, she would violently squirm to and fro; as if stabbed by the vicious dagger. Her screams were the most terrifying outcome of the remedies. Spyro would close his eyes as tightly as he could, and would duck to cover his ears. Even Sparx, who hated the black she-witch, would hover away, pitying her agony.

It was a little after this had reoccurred to Cynder for the countless time that Spyro sat before his plateful of gelatinous 'hardly-what-you-call-a-potion' potion, relentless to swallow. It was not his own distaste for the potion that drew the dragon away from the awful task of putting such a horrid mixture down his throat, but rather his thoughts for Cynder. He sat in silence, and reminisced the last time he saw Cynder collapse into that state of utter suffering and torment. He winched as he remembered her screams, and the way she squirmed in terror-striking ways. He trembled as images of Cynder's lifeless eyes would show like something of a nightmare. He shed a tear as he would swear to himself that she was dead, and that the ancestors had claimed someone he loved so dearly.

And it all lead back to a single cause: the black potion. It was as if this elixir was more of a poison, destined to kill her, than a potion of healing. Cynder would seem weak and pale-like whenever she would collapse, but the squirming and yelling would not start before she would have this drink. It nearly sickened Spyro to see Ignitus rush to Cynder with that terrible draught, and little would stop him from shouting at Ignitus to stop trying to kill the poor dragoness. He would always bite his tongue, and would pray dearly to the ancestors and gods to stop the terror.

Soon enough Cynder would cease to scream and would fall into a state of utter weakness. Ignitus would take her away to her room, and would not let her out until she fully recovered. Spyro and Sparx would be allowed to visit the dragoness, but she mostly slept -restlessly and with signs of pain, making visits only more pitiful.

But this is what Spyro was off to do now, for he missed the dragoness, and his only wish was to see her rise, strong and well. He walked through the stale, cool halls of the ancient temple and arrived to Cynder's room. The room was located in one of the highest levels of the aged temple, and the light of twilight filled the room entirely. Entering Cynder's room was always terribly alien to the purple dragon. Everything was arranged in a perfect manner, as if some ill compulsion would lead Cynder to this excessive desire to be neat. While Spyro's room had scrolls and books lying all around his terribly un-uniform and messy haystack-of-a-bed, Cynder had all of her reading material placed in the bookshelf given to her; arranged alphabetically. Spyro was careless about most of his personal hygiene, and his room smelled much like what one might imagine a wicked dragon's lair might smell like, but Cynder was obsessed with good odors. A fragrant flower was placed by a dragon's table near to the entrance, and every corner of the room had potpourri elegantly placed on heaters that would sparse the aromas.

As the dragon walked in, crossing the veil that covered the entrance to the young dragoness' room, he immediately saw Cynder lying in her hay-stack bed as she slept. She seemed decently peaceful, but from time to time she would shiver violently, causing Spyro to remain unmoved from the entrance for a few moments. He drew nearer to the dragoness eventually. He walked towards her as silently and carefully as he could. The dragoness seemed unmoved by his quiet steps, so he moved to her side. There he saw the dragoness entirely. Her closed eyelids seemed to show that she was at peace. At times her eye ridges craned and twisted in a way that showed pain and worries. Spyro sighed, pitying her still.

"Oh Cyn…" he silently spoke, as he rested one of his paws on her chill forehead. He could feel the coolness of her entire face, and was drawn to the conclusion that she was cold.

He turned, as if by instinct, to search for a blanket that might cover the dragoness. Even if the afternoon did not bring too many waves of cold, for an ill dragoness it would be more than freezing. Cynder shivered partially, propelling Spyro to look further for her covers.

He soon found them atop a small table by the balcony entrance. The ancient wood table, finely crafted and trimmed with gilded carvings of dragons at war, held a thick, linen cover on it. Spyro moved quickly to the table and grabbed the cover with great haste. As he moved it with his paw off of the table, from it fell a vial no bigger that a paw's length. Spyro heard the bottle clink as it resisted the fall from atop the table. He turned, and ceased the vial before it rolled away. The dragon lifted it up, and was in awe when he stared at it clearly. The bottle was filled with the black elixir.

Spyro craned his head around the room, as if waiting for someone to beckon him and ask for the vial. The dragon knew too well that the potion was clearly off limits to him, as for whenever he would ask anything about it, Ignitus would give him a stern look and would hide it in the pouch he used to carry all of his alchemy. Dark secrets were kept by the guardians indeed, but few were kept as carefully as this one. Spyro could not imagine the meticulously careful Ignitus making as big of a mistake as to leave this potion behind, but the purple dragon assumed that he had to make a mistake sooner or later.

For a moment the dragon moved toward the table again, and was to do his dutiful responsibility of returning the vial; for it was not his. But from the blue, a great torrent of curiosity filled his heart.

He had always wondered what caused Cynder more pain: her illness, or the remedy to it. As said before, common observation would lead Spyro to believe that it was the potion that would destroy the dragoness. Spyro could not help but to feel that Ignitus was no more than a fiend by giving her this drink, and at times would even believe Sparx's wild theory that the guardians wanted Cynder dead –even if he would brush these thought away as quickly as he could. Why would the guardian's want her dead, after all? Cynder would seem fine when she would recover.

If she would recover, this meant that the potion helpful. This is what Spyro said to himself as he stared at the potion, resisting the desire to destroy the vial.

He raised an eye ridge as he fumbled the vial about his paw. The sudden temptation to taste this elixir slowly crawled into his mind. He swallowed as he looked at the cork top that covered the dark potion. Turning, he gazed at Cynder yet again. She rested, unmoved from where he had seen her before. There was a cold sweat on her forehead, and she shivered slightly. For a moment Spyro feared that she would awake and see him with the vial in his hand. While sick, Cynder was rather hot-tempered, and would fall into fits of sudden rage. He could still remember the day she had spoken to him almost absorbed by the remnants of her corruption. She called him a scum, and with strength unimaginable for a dragoness of her size she threw him on the ground, nearly slaying him. If it had not been for Spyro's urgent pleas, Cynder would have never freed herself from the evils of her mind. She was the one pleading for forgiveness afterwards, but Spyro was ever there to forgive her.

"_It was not you, Cyn," he would comfort her. "It was only the passing of evil."_

Spyro looked back at the vial. His eyes were fixed, and he had now convinced himself surely that he had to drink the potion. He had to know what Cynder felt. He had to know how he could protect her.

The purple dragon opened the vial; that was easy enough. The liquid unleashed a fume that was all but strange to the dragon. The aroma was sweet and luring. It was almost intoxicating and mind-warping; but what that was left in the mind was traces of peculiar lifelessness. Spyro felt cold, and his spirits seemed to fall.

But the dragon was captured by the aroma, and its secret promises. Spyro slowly moved the vial to his lips, ever more intoxicated. He was now clenched by the potion entirely, and he poured the vial's contents into his mouth.

As soon as the liquid made contact with the savior´s flesh, a sudden and vile wave of pure pain surged through the entire dragon's body. Spyro had never felt so much agony in his life; and as it reached every particle of his being, he screamed in with all of his strength. He quickly collapsed, and began to convulse ferociously as wave after wave of pain ran through his body. He felt the stab of a million daggers and the lash of a million whips as he slowly lost his vision. He could no longer see Cynder's room, but rather the dark walls of what seemed to be a dungeon. Spyro noticed how Gaul whipped him now, and crushed his neck until he was nearly out of breath. As he looked at his paws and his tail that lashed out at the wicked villain, he noticed that these were not his, but Cynder's. Gaul threw the dragon to the ground, and Spyro -now in Cynder's body- gasped for air. He looked back hazily as a servant of Gaul gave him a serum in a syringe with a wicked needle. From what Spyro could see he noticed that the content of the syringe seemed to glow dark-purple. Before too long, Gaul took the dragon, lifted his dangerous dagger-clad tail, and dug the needle into his higher thigh. As the contents of the syringe flooded into the dragon's body, he screamed yet again. He could feel the liquid that flowed in his body. It made him cold and brought him misery. He could feel his heart speed up as a dark aurora surrounded him. It was cold and cruel to the skin. The darkness moved closer to him, and caused all of his muscles to expand in the most painful of fashions. It felt like his flesh and bones would explode, and his body would be un-seamed from the pressure within. He shouted again, and began to convulse. He could notice, from his shouts, that his voice was that of Cynder's.

Soon the pain eased, and he was numb. The dragon felt cold and lifeless.

"That will assure us that forever you will forever be our puppet," Gaul snarled in near disgust. He spit on the dragon as he kicked him with great strength. Spyro's body was numb, but from the strength of the blow he could feel one of his ribs shatter. The dragon quickly tasted blood, as he began to cough uncontrollably. He began to feel all the air he would breathe escape him. He choked as he started to gargle his own blood.

"Curses…" Gaul muttered. "I guess I kicked you too hard, scum." Spyro turned to look at Gaul. "Servant, Bring me another syringe!" The macabre ape gazed at the dragon yet again as he chuckled in a fiendish way. "Let's see if we can fix you…"

More blood spilled from Spyro's mouth, and soon there was a pool of this red liquid grazing his muzzle. Spyro felt like he was to die, but Gaul lifted his tail yet again, and stabbed him with another syringe. Once again he agonized, and more than before. He felt the broken rib on his body move back to its place in the most tormenting of way, and the flesh on his innards mended, but not in a soothing manner. He ceased to bleed, and quickly he was numb again.

He tried to crane his head as to stare at Gaul once more. The dragon's whole being ached tremendously. The pool of blood by his muzzle had spread out further, and when it got into his eye it burned and made him lose his sight for a slight moment. Spyro could feel all of his energy building up as he suddenly jerked about and roared furiously. Gaul snickered as he grabbed the struggling dragon from the tail. A triumphant grin could be seen on his face as Spyro turned his body to gaze at him.

"Come on, whelp. It's time for the real fun." But as Spyro felt Gaul dragging him through the rough and cruel dungeon floor, he suddenly felt disconnected from his being. It was as if he was distancing himself from his body, and his being was turning rapidly cold. Spyro thought for a moment that he was to die, for he lost his vision; but quickly enough he awoke to see a pair of familiar eyes.

Young Cynder stood before the purple dragon gaping at him with worn, weakened eyes. The dragoness lightly tottered as her feet could hardly carry her. As the purple dragon realized he was back in Cynder's room, lying belly down, he shot his head up.

"Cyn," he whispered in a frail voice. He could still feel the pain and torment that had come to him but a second ago, but it quickly dissipated. Cynder moved closer to Spyro with weakened legs, and grabbed a hold of the now-closed dark elixir.

"You drank from it, didn't you?" Cynder asked in a stoic manner. The dragon blinked, and could not help but to feel terribly ashamed for his heinous deed.

"Yes…" was all that could come from Spyro's faltering lips. He stared at Cynder in silence, as she gazed at the bottle in her paws. There was something different about the liquid within the vial now. Even if it was black in its essence, under the light of the newly lit torches one could see small purple particles swimming about. It was as if in the terror of Cynder's potion, Spyro had left a bit of himself. He contaminated the dark liquid with a part of his being.

"Ignitus had told you never to drink from this potion, right?" Cynder questioned Spyro further, as the warmth of the purple dragon's form returned to him in a bitter blush. The purple savior had not been explicitly told that the potion was off limits to him, but he had assumed this from Ignitus' unkind aloofness towards any of his questions about the potion. Spyro was not going to explain this to Cynder, though. He felt horrible enough as it was.

"Yes," Spyro finally answered, as he looked down in further mortification. The two dragons were silent for a moment, until you could hear Cynder quietly sobbing. Spyro looked at her sad and weak figure as she cried as silently as she could. The dragon was alerted by her distress –as he always was, and rose as quickly as he could.

"Cyn," he started sorrowfully. "Don't cry, Cyn. I am very sorry for what I did, and I promise never to do it aga-"

"You weren't supposed to see what you saw in there, Spyro!" Cynder cut him off, stumbling as her frail body could not handle her rage. "The potion could have killed you as well, and that would have been my death!" Spyro sat on his haunches as Cynder crashed her head onto his chest. Her silent whimper was now a full wail.

The dragon placed his paw upon Cynder's shoulder as he cradled her. Spyro was speechless and partially confused. He wondered what she meant with her last words. At last he spoke.

"Cyn… I didn't know," he began apologetically "If only I would have known that by dying in this dream I would kill you I would have nev-"

"It's not like that…" Cynder whisper in between tears, seeing Spyro's clear misunderstanding of her words. "If you die… I won't have a light to guide me out of this shadow. Spyro… you're my only joy in this life."

Spyro's heart skipped a beat, and the knot in his throat nearly suffocated him as it rose to his mouth. He felt such pity from these words that he laid his head on the dragoness' shoulder.

"Cynder… you can't say that," he responded. "You have the world, full of colors, and all of the ones who care for you… Please don't say that."

The two were silent momentarily.

"Spyro," Cynder spoke.

"Yes?"

"Never drink from that potion ever again."

"Alright…"

"And Spyro…"

"Yes…"

"Never leave me…"

**Please Comment.**

**Thankies!**


	2. Dreams and Heroes

**Hey there, it's shade again, back with another chapter of The Black Elixir. I just wanted you guys to know that I am really enjoying this story, and I feel like it's been one of my best so far.**

**I will be adding a little footnote that will concern the usage of the ancient language among the Elitars and Patains later on. Perhaps I will add it to my Spyro Myths and Lore collection.**

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Spyro's head pounded viciously as he attempted to catch his night's sleep. Due to the events that had happened previously, and Spyro's concern for the already fragile state Cynder was in, the dragon had asked the dragoness if he could stay with her for the night. While she would normally reject such an offer, this time she consented. The dragoness was too tired to fight for her need of lonesomeness, and deep down inside –even if she would never accept it to herself- she needed the dragon's company.

She felt terrible for the experience that the dragon had gone through. Spyro's terrifying screams had awakened the dragoness, and watching the dragon writhing in pain made her realize what had happened. Cynder, worried for the safety of her partner, thought immediately about telling the guardians about the dragon's doings; but fear of being blamed secretly by them kept her from moving quickly. Even if they had never heard it from them, Cynder felt that the Guardians still feared her, and knew that they had doubts about keeping her in the temple.

Cynder's heart pushed itself up to her throat as Spyro's eyes opened, and his iris shrunk to where it seemed the light of life had left him. Cynder rushed to the dragon's side, and placed a paw on his flank.

"Please, Ancestors, do not do this to me," she pleaded in prayer as Spyro trembled violently. She prayed and prayed, begging for all the ancestors, fates, and gods to stop their doings. She could not lose Spyro, not like this. He had done so much for her, and to have him pass away due to the memories of her past was the ultimate form of torture Cynder could imagine coming from her cruel destiny. The evils would never leave, would they?

At last she sat back as Spyro became motionless. The energy consumed by the adrenaline in her body was much more than she really had. She almost collapsed as her sickness took its toll. Sitting on her haunches, she prayed and prayed until Spyro woke. The ancestors had finally answered her pleads.

And so Cynder agreed to have Spyro stay with her; since it was the least she could do. The dragoness quickly fell asleep, more in peace than she had been in the past few days. His warmth soothed her, oddly enough for the dragoness. She was ever so used to the cold.

Spyro, on the other hand, was unable to close a single eye. What he saw in that window into Cynder's memories not only frightened him out of his wits, but also made him feel great sorrow for the dragoness that pressed her flank against his. Her past was ghastly, and to imagine going through it in reality was agonizing. He thought of all of his hardships on his journey. He thought of all the blows he had taken, and even of the terrible stabs and cuts that Cynder had given him in her corrupted state; but none of it was as cruel and wicked and painful as what he went through but a few moments back. The dragon closed his eyes, and, struggling, finally reached sleep. The confines of his mind were not too caring though.

Again he fell into an abyss, and he began to feel slight pain. This time he wasn't in as much misery as before, but he awakened as Cynder yet again. His vision was blurry –as if veiled by the barrier that separates dreams from reality- but he found himself dragging his body across the floor. There was the laughter of apes all about him. The clamor of the fiends was mixed with the sound of metal breastplates and rusted shields clashing. Spyro looked about and noticed that he was surrounded by the villains. Looking before him, he saw Gaul.

"Get up, Whelp!" He shouted as he kicked Spyro across the face, nearly breaking his jaw. "If this mole kills you, you'll finally prove to the world that you're worth nothing." He chuckled. "But that won't make Master happy, will it? So move it!"

Gaul grabbed the dragon by the throat, crushing it with what seemed more than the needed strength to kill him. He turned Spyro around though, and placed him before a terror stricken mole. He was trapped in the middle of the ring made by the furious-looking apes that gazed at both the dragon and him. The mole wore a leather combat vest, and was clad with a simple short sword and a wooden shield. He gazed at the dragon with horror, as blood dripped from the tip of his weapon. Spyro looked down at his chest, and had noticed that he bled. The cut wasn't deep, but it surely irked him. The apes exploded into even more wild laughter as the dragon touched his chest, examining the wound.

"The poor whelp's never seen blood!" One shouted from the crowd that surrounded Spyro.

"The poor peasant mole has probably seen more terrors from his fat wife, at least!" Another yelled.

This oddly bothered the dragon, and he looked at the mole once again. The poor creature trembled on its feet. Tears could be seen coming from his blood-shot eyes. Spyro looked at his lips, and noticed them speak the word 'Please' in silence.

Sudden rage filled the dragon's heart, as if some terrible shadow took control of him. It hurt at first to resist the evil as it shrouded over him, but quickly enough he lost his strength. Without a will, Spyro moved onto the mole with great speed. His claws did quick work with his blade. Quickly he was unarmed, and was on his back. As Spyro triumphantly placed the weight of her small paw on the moles chest, he ceased. Looking at him as he begged for mercy brought some sort of pity to his heart, and his will returned momentarily.

"Kill the beast, you fool!" Spyro could hear from behind him as the apes wailed in excitement. His pity was only momentary, and quickly enough he dug his teeth into his throat. Biting a foe's neck was eternally foreign to Spyro, and doing it now disgusted him. He felt the blood of his enemy rush into his throat as it pulsed out of him. The metallic-flavored liquid tasted awful, and Spyro had the urge to vomit. But he did not, and had no choice but to swallow the thick, warm blood.

It was only a moment until the mole was dead. His limbs twitched as the last strengths left him. Spyro saw the light leave the moles eyes right before he was unattached again, and briskly awoken.

He opened his eyes, and was soothed by the fact that he was back to his own body. The dragon trembled from horns to tail as he looked around, alert. He sought the potion which he had drank yesterday, and wondered if he had drank it again. It made no sense to him that he should continue to gaze into Cynder's memories, but he assumed that getting side-effects from the draught was not entirely impossible.

Spyro looked to Cynder as she slept in complete peace. Not a single thing bothered her, and that brought slight joy to the overwhelmed Spyro. He frowned, as he suddenly came to the realization that Cynder had already experienced what he went through in his dream.

"Oh, Cyn…" he whispered sorrowfully, as he put a wing on her back. He furrowed his brows, as he began to wonder how many more of these memories were to come to him. He suddenly worried about it, and convinced himself that he had to tell Ignitus about last night's events.

He was quickly out of Cynder's room and in the great halls of the temple. Spyro was quite careful about leaving the dragoness' side. He brought the nearest linen covers to the dragoness and placed them atop her gently. The dragon did not want to awaken Cynder, for he knew that sleep like this came to her seldom. As he carefully trotted out, he looked back to his young companion, and smiled as he noticed her adjusting to his absence.

"Good," Spyro whispered to himself. "Sleep under the kind care of the Ancestors."

Spyro marched towards the mirror hall through the ancient labyrinth that was the temple. The dragon had become so accustomed to the endless halls and passages of the haven that he hardly took the time to see the craft of it –a great flaw of the young dragon indeed!

The temple was all one great masterpiece, built by the ancestors to honor the gods. Every hall had carefully crafted carvings of the ancient days of great heroes and kings. If Spyro would have paid attention –and if the torn and eroded walls weren't so mistreated by time, he would have seen in carvings tales like The Coming of the First Dragon, and tales of how the first languages were made. It is even true that, with a sharp eye, you could see many purple dragons and their great deeds. Ignitus and the other guardians worked hard to restore the works of this ancient world, but found themselves quickly abandoning the task. The walls would only collapse before their eyes with every effort they made to remove the roots and trunks which were the least kind to these relics of the past. Spyro would see them laboring hard now and again, saving something that was completely un-salvageable.

As Spyro turned a corner, he came to the only mural his eyes were ever drawn to. The image was partially unclear, but a few carvings were saved from destruction. Many dragons flew in from both sides of the moral towards the center. The dragons on the right were significantly different to those on the left. On the right, the dragons looked great and noble, wearing capes and armor of gold like those worn by all the heroes Spyro knew of; on the left, the dragons wore simpler attires but looked greater in size. In the middle there was a small stream of calm water. On the right side sat a purple dragon, lifting his hand and reaching out towards the other carving on the left of the stream. The carving on the left was that of a black dragoness, fierce but fair like the feminine champions of the past. It was lamentably broken down the middle, where the two dragons held hands.

Spyro had asked about the mural when it first drew his attention. Ignitus was pleased to hear that the young purple dragon was curious about the carvings, for it was one of his personal favorites.

"Ah," Ignitus spoke back then, pleasantly surprised. "I am more than glad that you ask, young dragon. You see, these carvings tell us the tale of Ferlak the peacemaker. Back in ancient days beyond our reckoning, the two greatest dragon tribes were at war. The Elitars, fair dragons of the eastern isles fought fiercely with the powerful Patians of the west. The gods were angry at the dragons, their greatest creations, for slaying one another like beasts, and brought down great disease and sorrow to the lands. During the year of the dragon, came Ferlak, their generation's purple dragon. Ferlak was born under the rule of the Elitar king, Ge-Ilit. The king himself chose to raise the purple dragon, and taught him to hate the Patians like he did. To Ferlak, this hate never seemed right to him, but he didn't stand against it until he went out to war.

"In his first war campaign as the prince of the Elitar, Ferlak met the princess of the Patians. You know well that no dragoness in any age has ever shown weakness, and the princess was no different. She was brave, indeed; her courage met no end. Through many a battle she led her people, and through the fire and smoke she defeated many of the Elitar.

"But you see, the brave princess was suddenly struck by the god's illness, and she fell to its merciless wrath. In a small village they had conquered near the warfront she collapsed and nearly surrendered to death. The princess's men feared for her wellbeing, and knew that the only one that could cure the god's affliction was the purple dragon. Her men, knowing no other solution, removed the princess's armor and banner of war, and forced the village leader's wife to stay her in her house.

"The Patian soldiers abandoned the village, in hopes that this would bring the prince and his men to reclaim it; and so they did. There was no struggle, as the village people were faithful to the Elitar. Upon arriving, the village leader's wife told the noble prince of the fallen dragoness, keeping her promise of not telling him of her true origin. Prince Ferlak was led to the room where the ill dragoness was kept, and upon seeing her he fell in love with her beauty.

"For a long time the prince stayed in this small village, sundering himself from his men to heal the princess's affliction. The king's men marched on to battle, while the love-bewitched prince stayed. It took many passings of the sun to awaken the princess from her dark sleep –a curse that came with the god's affliction. Upon her awakening, the princess was bewildered to know that the purple dragon, adopted son of her people's greatest enemy, brought her to health with much compassion and care. The young prince was unaware of the princess's true identity, so the dragoness thought this would benefit her.

"The princess started to prepare a ploy against Ferlak. She would wait for him to heal her, and once she could have the strength to return to her Patian kingdom in the far west, she would assassinate the purple dragon in the night, and then abandon the village with his fallen foe's head as a trophy. But things didn't go quite that way.

"With the passing of days, Ferlak would begin to speak to her more often. They had many conversations about the war and of its consequences. As the princess deemed it better to stay silent most of the time –as to assure that she would not reveal her own identity, the Elitar prince was the one who did most of the talking. He told her of his fears in concern to the war, and unveiled to her his dislike for the entire dispute. He was so clever and wise that day by day the princess would be convinced by Ferlak. Maybe indeed the war was only the result of the avarice of a few. Maybe the hate that both sides had was held by pillars of misunderstandings and lies. The princess had never met someone as knowledgeable in concern to the history of their people as a whole. He told her of days when the race of dragons was one, and how they guarded the world with noble hearts. Ferlak reminded the princess that during such days the gods were proud of their creations, and brought them peace and prosperity.

"Amidst the prince's care and words, the Patian princess also fell in love. Her heart was captured by the dragon's kindness, so that even after the dragoness healed, she dared not proceed with her plan to slay him. They secluded themselves from the troubles of the world, and for two whole years the dragons were assumed dead by their peoples.

"It was during the last few days of their seclusion that the princess revealed the secret about her true title as the princess to Ferlak. The Elitar prince was at first surprised to know that the great and merciless slayer of his people was now his mate, and that this secret had gone unsaid as their love grew. But his heart held no pain for her words, for he knew that, oddly enough, it was all meant to be. It was then that the prince thought about the Great War again, and yearned to end it once and for all.

"He had a plan, you see. Ferlak now knew that, amongst both of their peoples' laws, a bonding of lovers in between two fighting families would require the rivaling parties to end their war. The Elitar prince told the dragoness that he would depart and travel to his kingdom to the east, and asked the princess to do the same. The dragon instructed the Patian princess to return to her kingdom and to talk to the king, her father. She would have to convince him to come with her to the gentle stream of Lagia where their kingdoms were separated from one another. Upon reaching the stream and having their forces face each other, the two would come before the stream, and there they would bind themselves in mate-ship.

"The princess was afraid that throughout their journeys one or the other would fail in their mission, or die trying. The purple dragon used his powers to summon two great stars that would shine upon the northern skies. If one star or the other disappeared during their mission, it was a sign that they had fallen. With the love stars in the sky, the dragons returned to their kingdoms.

"The people of Elitar and Patian were equally surprised with the return of their noble leaders. Throughout the two dragons' absence, death had claimed the kings the both realms; each losing their life in battle. Great stewards had taken their places, and with the coming of the Ferlak and the princess they removed themselves and crowned the two.

"The last days of the season of earth had passed, and with the season of fire arriving both dragons looked for their beloved stars in the night. They both glistened brightly, and assured both Ferlak and the princess that the time to move had come.

"So they gathered their forces and moved toward the stream of Lagia. Both the Elitars and the Patians were wholly surprised by the fact that, even with as great an army as they had, not a single warrior had the right to carry his weapons. They sailed and marched to the center isle in much confusion. Doubt about their leaders filled the hearts of both the Elitar and Patian men. As they marched and realized that there was no opposition to confront them, their thoughts became merry. The soldiers of both realms danced and sang in joy as they traveled from the far shores of the center isle to where the two dragons had promised they would meet.

"And so they both arrived, and throughout the traverse the Elitar and Patian warriors were taught both humbleness and care by their new leaders. Both of the peoples wished for no war by the time the forces met before the steam, and only cheered when both Ferlak and the princess bonded in mate-ship. That alliance ended the most terrible war to happen amongst dragons until the coming of the Dark Master. That alliance was never broken, and so it still stands; as the creation of the great guardianship was their idea. They knew that peace could only be held if a council composed of dragons from all of the realms led the race as a whole. The task of holding the late-hatching eggs until the year of the dragon was also given to the guardians. This to them was particularly important, considering that a purple dragon was born every ten generations." And so Ignitus smiled, as he gazed at the awe-stricken savior. Spyro's eyes were held wide open, and for a moment he soaked the whole story in; remembering each detail with delicate care. He imagined it all happen before him, like any dazzled whelp might after hearing a grand tale.

But at last, Spyro's visage changed. He suddenly seemed troubled, and shot his gaze down in wonder. His eye ridged furrowed, as his lips tightened in slight perplexity.

"Is there anything wrong?" Ignitus asked after a moment of wonder.

"Ignitus, why didn't you ever mention the Patian princess's name?" Spyro finally asked with a great deal of curiosity. "Does she not have one?"

Ignitus sighed as his head swooned down in disappointment. The great guardian realized why he asked him this question, and was ashamed to answer it.

"You see, Spyro," Ignitus started. "Unfortunately, the names of black dragons and dragoness are forbidden in our books and history; it has been forbidden by the code of our people. The princess's name was lost in time, long ago."

With such said, Spyro's noble nature roused from within, and before Ignitus could further explain, he spoke out.

"But that's not fair, Ignitus!" He spoke in a lightly risen voice. "All dragons deserve to have their names remembered if their deeds were great, don´t they?" Once again, Ignitus sighed.

"Well, unfortunately, Spyro, like the crack on this mural, not all things can be mended. Our ancestors held these codes true, and hid her name from all our records." Spyro sat, silenced by this bitter taste of reality. Ignitus looked at the purple dragon and felt great discomfort. He worried that this truth had spoiled the tale for him, for Ignitus knew that above all things his heart belonged to Cynder. He would care for no one in a greater way than he cared for his companion.

"You know," Ignitus started. "There was one name that the Elitar would give to this black dragoness." Spyro's eye beamed.

"Really?" the dragon asked with the fire of hope rekindled in his heart.

"Well, yes," the fire guardian continued. "The Elitar held a name for her during the war, for you see, this princess was the fiercest of all the Patian champions. Her claws and fangs slew many a great warriors; and so they gave her the name 'Cynder.'" With this, the purple dragon was captured but torn. It troubled the dragon that the black dragoness' name could actually belong to that of a fiend.

"Oh," Spyro retorted.

"Indeed, young dragon, for Cynder in the ancient language of the Elitar meant 'Destroyer of Skies.' It was a terrible name to give to her, since in this age titles were worth more than gold." Spyro looked down again.

"But Spyro, two you must know that will bring warmth to your heart. While Cynder could mean 'Destroyer of Skies' in their ancient language, it could also stand for 'Destroyer of Terrors.' This name was used to speak of the princess even after the end of the war, for it told others of her strength to overcome the evils of the world." Spyro was less brought down, and his heart quickly healed as he showed interest once again.

"Is that true, Ignitus?" he asked, as if hoping for reassurance that could bring further joy to his heart.

"It is, Spyro," the elder dragon replied. "And there is but one more thing you should know. As I told you before, Ferlak was called "The Peacemaker" after the end of the dreadful War of Ages. That name in their language was 'Spyro.'" Ignitus chuckled lightly, as Spyro's jaw dropped in secret. "It was actually a surprise to me when I first heard your name," the dragon continued. "It was almost as if it was meant to be."

"Meant to be," Spyro said to himself as he gazed at the mural, sidetracked from his original intent. His eyes grazed the image slowly, as he noticed every detail of the carefully crafted Mural. "Meant to be…"

And so he turned his head, rose from his rump, and moved on across the hall. As thoughts of two great dragon's saving the world came to him –one dragon purple and the other black, he could hear words being spoken in the distance.

"We must be careful," they said. "Cynder could be naught but a liability!"

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